


some bruises never heal

by falsealarm



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:58:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8320078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsealarm/pseuds/falsealarm
Summary: A chance meeting at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brocanteur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brocanteur/gifts).



> I probably did too much research for how short this fic is but I needed it to be right and I hope it is. 
> 
> Painting's mentioned: Johannes Vermeer ["Young Woman with a Water Pitcher"](http://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/437881), Peter Paul Reubens ["Venus and Adonis"](http://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/437535), and JMW Turner ["Peace - Burial at Sea 1842"](http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/turner-peace-burial-at-sea-n00528).

The gallery is empty save the paintings, one Vermeer after another, almost the entirety of the Met’s modest collection stored in a corner room on the second floor. Joan’s been here before but never by herself, always with the mumbling rush of a crowd around her. Being alone with the art feels luxurious, a quiet bubble of serenity in the middle of Manhattan.

It’s half 8am and Joan’s been left to wander in the European Paintings wing, her chaperone called away on some seemingly urgent matter. She stands in front of _Young Woman with a Water Pitcher_ , eyes drawn immediately to the woman’s face, a half-smile on her lips, fondness perhaps in the eyes. Joan traces the cascade of light from the window, against the frame, down her forearm, tries to count the shades of blue in her dress. Everything seems amplified in the silence, the sheen of the pitcher, the patterns on the tablecloth. Joan feels almost as if she is there in the room, the smallest hint of a spring breeze wafting through the air.

After a few moments her peace is invaded by the soft murmurings of a guide a few galleries over, it seems the VIP tour has caught up with her. When Joan turns to look for them she finds a young man approaching her, his steps long, boots clomping against the floor, louder and louder with every step closer.

When he’s at the door to her gallery he calls out, “Are you Joan?”

He’s disheveled in a studious sense, collared shirt under a wool sweater, hair swept up in a bun at the back of his head and his glasses sit crooked on his nose. He looks familiar in the way that all 20-something NYU students do. “Did Richard send you?”

He shakes his head. “Some woman gave me a note, said you’d be in this wing.” His hand is outstretched, a piece of paper folded once over between his thumb and index finger.

“A woman?” Joan takes the note, unfolds it. She recognizes the handwriting and feels her stomach drop, a cold lead weight pushing against her insides. “Where was she when she gave you the note?”

“Just outside,” he turns around to look over his shoulder and Joan follows his gaze, sees his group disappearing around the corner. “I have to get back.”

“Of course,” Joan nods, “go ahead. Thank you.” Then he’s off and Joan reads the note again.

_Courage is not safe against the bold, 628_

 

The cursive is neat but hastily written, pressure light and lettering broken by the uneven roll of a cheap ballpoint pen. There is no signature but Joan knows who it is. The number is another gallery, close by according to Joan’s map and Joan feels unsettled by the nearness but curious all the same. She leaves the Vermeers behind, moves with quiet determination from one gallery to the next until she sees her.

She’s standing in front of a painting Joan vaguely recognizes, dark trench coat hanging open, blonde hair free at her back, the glint of a watch at her wrist. Joan approaches silently, stops a few steps away. “How did you know I was here?”

There’s a smile on Jamie’s lips as she turns to speak, “Richard told me. He’s a friend, you know.” She turns back towards the painting and motions to it with a tilt of her head. “Do you know the story of Venus and Adonis?”

Joan hasn’t read Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_ in years, can only recall feathery plot points: Cupid’s arrow, a hunt, Adonis’ death.

Jamie continues without her answer, “Oh be brave against those timid animals which fly from you; but courage is not safe against the bold.” Her voice is light, almost wistful and Joan feels a tightening in her chest. After a beat, she adds, “Are you feeling bold today, Joan Watson?”

Her gaze moves back to Joan, the flicker of a smile Cheshire at her lips as she moves towards a door against the wall to their left. Joan expects it to be locked but Jamie grabs hold of the knob and turns it freely, opening the door to reveal a large white-walled room, caged racks of empty frames to the left and office space to the right. It’s a disconcerting transition, the serenity of clean floors and sparsely hung paintings giving way to the clutter of office chairs and file boxes. Jamie turns to look at Joan over her shoulder, “I’ve got something to show you.”

She isn’t supposed to be in the city. Joan doesn’t know the extent of her banishment but she knows enough to be sure that being in the city is, at the least, a violation of her impossibly strict probation. Joan hasn’t seen her in months but not much has changed: her hair is longer, complexion healthier but she’s just as sharp, just as commanding, just as beautiful. Joan cannot help but be drawn to her still.

Her fingers are splayed against the flat plane of the door as she holds it open and Joan notes the slim edge of the scar at her wrist, white against white, a reminder, a threat. There is a moment of hesitation, silent, heavy. Joan knows better, knows that nothing good could possibly come from following this dangerous woman into the bowels of the museum but there is possibility and that is enough to spur her forward.

“I thought you were back in London,” Joan says as she makes her way through the door, shoulder brushing against Jamie’s front as she passes. Jamie moves to walk behind her, just far enough away that they don’t touch but close enough that Joan can smell her perfume, musky, luxuriant.

“I had business in town, I’m leaving tonight.” She directs Joan in an off-handed way, guiding her by mere presence rather than spoken direction. A repelling magnetism.

“What kind of business?”

“You’ll see.”

They walk across the room and through another door that takes them back out into the front of the European wing then Jamie speeds up, taking the lead towards a staircase down to the ground floor. Next is a series of hallways, another stairwell and Joan tries silently to keep track of where they are but once they start seeing “Yield to Art in Transit” signs Joan can only manage to decipher what direction they’re walking. Northwest now, deep into the belly of the museum. The halls are lit with yellow-white light and Joan feels like they’re surely trespassing now but every person they’ve seen has paid them no mind.

“You’re awfully quiet, Joan, too much on your mind?”

“I know you won’t answer my questions.”

“You know me too well, don’t you?”

“Unfortunately.”

Jamie looks over her shoulder, a devilish glint in her eye and in the smirk she gives Joan. “We’re almost there, I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

The hall ends at a set of double doors and Jamie pushes through them, leading Joan into a small loading dock. There’s a van being unloaded and Richard is at the end of the first dock with a duo of fidgeting staff with clip boards. They watch with wide eyes as a large parcel is lifted from the back of the van and carried to a table in an adjacent room.

“Richard, gentlemen,” Jamie greets the men with a smile, just dull enough at the ends that Joan knows it’s forced. She shakes their hands all in turn before introducing Joan, “my companion, Joan Watson. I promised her a sneak preview.”

Joan smiles at Richard and goes to offer her hand to the other two men but they simply nod at her before turning to follow the crate, watching quietly as it is carefully pried open. Jamie moves forward to follow with Joan at her heels. They claim an empty space around the table, Joan standing just behind Jamie’s shoulder, watching as each layer of packaging and padding is slowly opened.

There’s a painting beneath it all, a seascape of whites and greys with the ink black and warm gold of a burning ship at its center. Joan recognizes the style, “a Turner?”

“On loan from the Tate for a scarce few months, all I could manage,” Jamie answers. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“We’ll have it up by the end of the week, just have to shuffle a few paintings around to accommodate it,” Richard says as the man at the end of the table scribbles something hastily on his clip board.

“Gentlemen,” Jamie starts, “would you mind giving us a moment?”

“Of course, Ms. Fuller.” Richard answers. As he passes Joan he gives her a small nod and places a warm hand against her shoulder as if to say good luck and Joan wishes she didn’t need it. The trio file out and close the door behind them.

Joan takes a step to the side, “Fuller?”

Jamie smiles, “Jamie Moriarty isn’t allowed in New York City, you know that Joan.”

“So you _are_ here against your probation.”

“Momentarily, but there’s nothing improper about my visit, my business is completely legal.”

Joan wants to believe her but she knows better, nothing about Jamie Moriarty’s life will ever be _completely_ legal. “You contract art loans now?”

“A hobby, more than anything.”

Joan watches her closely, curiosity still thrumming through her veins. Her profile is lit poorly by the overhead lighting, awkward shadows cast across her cheek and jaw. Her eyes are soft and the line of her jaw is relaxed, she looks at the Turner with a fondness that Joan has only ever seen once before.

“It’s a memorial, you know,” Jamie wets her lips, “for artist David Wilkie, a friend of Turner’s. Consigned to the Bay of Gibraltar not a day after his passing.”

“Jamie,” it’s the first time Joan has said her name and it feels heavy on her tongue.

Jamie turns to her with a small smile and twinkling eyes, “yes, Joan?”

“What’s in your hand?”

The smile turns bemused and Jamie arcs an eyebrow, “Ever the detective.” There’s a flash drive tucked into her palm, no bigger than a nickel, pulled from a piece of padding at the left side of the frame. “Should I brush up on my sleight of hand?”

“You _should_ tell me exactly what you’re doing in the city,” Joan’s hand is fisted at her side. She isn’t surprised, not entirely, but disappointment sits like a sour taste at the back of her throat.

“Best not to get you involved, darling.” Her tongue curls around the word and Joan finds herself growing more frustrated with every second. She pockets the flash drive, “But I promise it’s nothing monstrous, just a little something to help get me back on my feet.”

“Blackmail?”

“I said nothing monstrous, Joan, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“All you do is lie.”

It’s minute, but Joan sees something crack in Jamie’s façade. The playfulness in her features smooths out and she takes a step forward towards Joan, closing the gap between them. Joan doesn’t back away but she does close her eyes. She breathes in Jamie’s perfume again, feels the brush of Jamie’s hand against her hip.

It was like this the last time Joan saw her. The edge of an argument, a slew of accusations in the air between them and Jamie’s refusal to confirm anything. Their interactions are precarious, a balancing act that relies solely on Joan’s patience as she slowly pulls the truth from Jamie, one thin thread at a time. The last time they were together it had ended closer than this, exhausted and exposed in a hotel just a few blocks away and Joan can feel the memory of it in Jamie’s breath, warm against her lips. “If I said I have missed you, would you think it a lie?”

Joan wants to reply with something biting, a clean slice into Jamie’s softest parts but instead Joan opens her eyes just long enough to lean forward and kiss her. It’s a brutal collision despite the tenderness of it and Joan can feel herself bruising, body and soul. Jamie’s hand fists in Joan’s dress as she presses closer but Joan already regrets the move, is already chastising herself even as Jamie licks into her mouth. Joan places a hand flat to the plane of Jamie’s chest and pushes. She breathes in as they break apart and opens her eyes again. Jamie’s eyes are dark, lips reddened already and Joan needs to leave.

She steps back and Jamie’s hand loosens. “Sherlock is expecting me.” He isn’t and Jamie knows that but it’s always her excuse.

“You should come back to see the Turner once it’s displayed,” Jamie says. She’s propped herself up, shoulders square, hands shoved hastily into her pockets.

“If I have time,” Joan replies and then she turns, reaches for the door. “Goodbye, Jamie.”

“Goodbye, Joan.”


End file.
